


Death Drive

by ronko_onko



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alcohol, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, F/M, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Manipulation, Slow Burn, Stalking, Swearing, Trauma, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronko_onko/pseuds/ronko_onko
Summary: After years of suffering, mourning, and isolation, Fen finds new motivation to keep going in her pursuit of justice against a super-powered creep, only for that motivation to be co-opted by vengeful madman, Billy Butcher. She determines that this is either the best or worst thing to ever happen to her. Once the dust has settled, though, what's really keeping Fen from ditching the dangerous crew of miscreants? Is it justice, revenge, fear, devotion to the cause, or devotion to Butcher?
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Death Drive

Fen curled into the thread-bare couch, gazing at her laptop screen like it was an enchanted flame, and reveled in the rare moment of reprieve from the endless chaos that inevitably came with being around Butcher. Buttressed by years of isolation, she had a pathological fear of everyday encounters in the normal world, but, as it turned out, doing piles of little errands was easy for Fen when she was hitched to a madman. It was the least she could do, since Butcher so rarely let her assist in the more treacherous missions. She was diligent and willing to participate (excluding direct violence), but waterworks were inevitable with her if he ever had to dome some goon or otherwise be the source of someone’s ultimate suffering. Butcher had to admit that the bizarre, stoic tears never stopped her from following through on a job, but it was still just too obnoxious for him to deal with.

She conceded on that point. Fen found her own tears cloying and unwanted, so she was fine devoting herself to the job she was “recruited” for or to managing daily tasks like doing laundry and stocking up on groceries, liquor, and cigarettes. She would do anything to feel helpful, but today was a break from that and a celebration of her recent success. The online poker gods chose benevolence that morning, and blessed the bank account with enough cash to keep her comrades fed and armed for at least a couple weeks. That meant a boozy movie marathon for her, laundry and frozen pizzas be damned.

Frenchie and Hughie had joined her for spats of time throughout the day, though were off doing Butcher’s bidding when the man himself appeared before Fen. She turned the laptop volume all the way up in a vain attempt to drown out his intentional noise-making. 

“Faffing about as per usual.” He plopped a nefarious looking duffel bag on the floor and plonked himself on the couch.

Fen steadied her precious computer through the jostling, “Mm.” She didn’t even give him the courtesy of a glance, “Shut up.”

He studied the screen for a moment. An obtuse viewing angle made it difficult to pick up any detail at first, but Butcher continued on his path of torment once he figured out what she was watching, “You really watching Pride and Prejudice?”

This innocuous comment stopped her petulant refusal to look at him, "You recognize Pride and Prejudice from a two second clip?" Mr. Darcy was in the background confessing his love to a scorned Elizabeth Bennet.

"It’s part of my nation’s history. We learnt this particular little tale in  _ primary _ school,” he teased, not one to let a friend forget any questionable action toward him.

It was hard for Fen to follow the unfolding plot through all of the flowery, unfamiliar language, and through the distraction of Butcher’s nagging, “Whatever.”

"So you just given up on being useful, then?"

Fen's index finger came down hard on the space bar. "Why did I even give you a log-in to the bank app if you're going to ask me that?"

"Christ, touchy touchy." Butcher was startled by her strong reaction, but took the cue to answer his own question. His face brightened at the account balance, and he nodded, "I stand corrected. Continue with your silly show."

She grinned. An exultant ‘thank you’ would have been nice, but that was asking for a lot from the bastard, “Wanna watch it with me?”

Butcher rolled his eyes and jabbed a finger at the screen, like he was about to be the next Roger Ebert and rip the movie apart, but his mind changed on a whim, “Actually--alright, fine. Sure.”

Fen moved the laptop to the milk crate coffee table, and curled into the couch next to Butcher. Perhaps it was that first night after the situation with Translucent that made her so physically comfortable around the prickly man. Fen tended to exist in a bubble all her own, but the thought of personal space invasion no longer crossed her mind with Butcher. At this moment, she was more transfixed on the romance on the screen. Mr. Darcy and Ms. Bennett performing a whole song and dance, but eventually breaking down and revealing their true emotions to each other. 

She almost lost herself in the romance and placed a hand over her mouth to hide pursed lips, and a flustered smile. Butcher caught this reaction and bellowed, “These fuckin’ pussies.”

“No one asked you,” Fen didn’t even bother looking at him, “They’re both so charming.”

Butcher snorted, “How’s it charming to say you want to shag a bird while having to use a thesaurus? You just like the posh accent.”

“Yeah, probably because I have deal with your gutter rat accent all the time. Theirs is so much more pleasant. God, they’re just so cute and coy.”

He gestured at the screen, feeling emboldened to critique despite his earlier restraint, “They don’t fuckin’ know nothing about each other! ‘Sides, the way these people just insinuate shit is just mental. Just be straightforward, chrissake.”

“Mr. Darcy literally confessed his love to her.”

“Yeah, then they both stay cunts to each other for the next year, then through some magic, telepathically decide they should both get together. Pure insanity.”

“It’s  _ fiction _ , and it’s  _ cute _ .” She poked his knee with each emphasis. 

Butcher responded in kind, “It’s  _ less stupid  _ to be  _ straightforward _ and not  _ insinuate  _ shit.”

Fen wanted to be mad at his irritating disruptions, but she was already drunk enough that the chance of her focusing on the movie much longer was slim to none anyways. So she gave up and fully engaged, turning to him with a false look of hurt, “What are you  _ insinuating _ , huh? I feel like you’re trying to tell me something.”

He responded too quickly for Fen’s taste, “I think you should just go ahead and admit it like your precious Mr. Darcy.”

The gears in Fen’s head locked up. She was already on her B game from the quantity of alcohol ingested over the course of the day, but what he seemed to be implying caused the full shut down of intelligent thought, as proven by her response.

“Listen… I’m gay.”

The silence, aside from the tinny sounding dialogue of the forgotten movie, was oppressive. Butcher smiled like a pit bull bearing his teeth, just as thrown off by her as she was by him, “You’re fuckin’ jokin’ me.”

Fen clamped her lips together and did not respond in a way that gave confidence, “...... Mmmmmm…..”

He let out a guffaw, “I buy that you swing both ways, but I know for a  _ fact _ you aren’t fuckin’ gay.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” Like a spring, she jumped to defense, but upon seeing the devilish grin and words forming in his head that he would wield against her, she elected to just admit her mistake, “Okay, okay, that was a joke! But I’m really drunk right now, so you  _ cannot _ give me shit for it.”

He kept howling with laughter, “You’re not, I don’t believe a word you say. You sound this idiotic all the time. Now stop fuckin’ making shit up to get out of being straightforward and direct.”

“‘Scuse me?” Fen was so desperate to play dumb and drunk all of the sudden, but Butcher gave no clemency.

“Admit it.”

Her shoulders tensed and anxiety sparked through her chest, “What am I admitting to, exactly?” She was  _ not _ about to admit to something he wasn’t actually referring to based on a drunken misunderstanding. If he wanted her to be clear, he’d have to clear things up first.

He would extend an olive branch, not out of consideration, but out of a desire to torture Fen even further, “Admit you want me to fuck you.”

Butcher, expecting her to fumble on her words and then retort with a stupid joke, found himself on the receiving end of a firm slap. He then noticed how red Fen’s cheeks were coupled with an out of character look of panic and anger on her face.

“Get the fuck over yourself, you absolute narcissist creep,” She blustered, trying not to regret hitting him. She had every right to be pissed, but was not practiced in acting on it. Fen couldn’t help but regret the outburst, though. 

“Get over myself?” Butcher half shouted. The unexpected violent reaction from Fen made him feel defensive. It was a  _ joke _ , after all, “At least I don’t follow people around like a pathetic little puppy and lie to myself constantly.”

Fen was incredulous. She would rather he hit her, if he was going to be this vicious.

An explanation for her initial aggression finally came together in her foggy head, so she ignored his spiteful words for the moment, “You act all high and mighty about being direct, but all you’ve done is make shit up in your head about what you think I want. What the fuck do  _ you _ want, huh?”

Fen knew this would end poorly, so she packed away the laptop into her backpack as she spoke, anticipating a long walk was in order. 

Butcher was still sitting on the couch, “Alrighty,” He clapped his hands together, “If I tell you what I want, you’ll give me a proper letdown, eh? Not come up with any more dogshit responses?”

She stopped fiddling with her bag and gave him a hard look, telepathically threatening him to cease speaking.

He smiled smugly and continued, “Nothin’ I’d like to do more right now than fuck you onto this shitty couch,” Fen was deadpan, in a pathetic attempt to suppress her myriad emotions and hope that he would spontaneously change the subject, but he did not, “Eh? Now your turn.”

She stood in front of him with the backpack held limply in her hand. This was a puzzle that could not be solved, especially not at this blood alcohol level. Fen took cue from her prevailing emotions, frustration and stupidity, and spat in his face, “You fucking called me pathetic you--” 

He rose from the couch and caught her gruffly by the front of the shirt, “Alright, out you go, you goddamn child.”

The backpack slipped from her grip, and she stumbled along the front edge of the couch as Butcher dragged her. Fen tried to pull away, but all she managed was to trip him in her clambering. She was still in his grasp, but was on top, so she took the opportunity to try smashing the milk crate over his head. Butcher was leagues more skilled at fighting than Fen, so it was easy enough for him to yank the makeshift weapon away and turn the tables. 

She held down by the neck, and he got an untimely memory of the first night they met when a similarly stupid fight happened. Though, this time around, he was much more confused and irritated.

“Fen, I will beat the fuck out of you.” He threatened in a tone almost like a parent threatening punishment, not a deranged madman. She struggled against him, and heard a bottle clatter next to her. Fen would later convince herself that the following choice she made was exceptionally stupid, but in the moment, she was slave to her fear and liquor-induced fight-or-flight response. She reached out for her liquid courage, and wielded it at him like a club.

Of course, he caught her wrist before she could crack it against his skull and wrenched it from her hand, tearing away the brown bag it was in. Butcher was about to fuss at her again, but noticed how little whiskey was actually left in the hefty, glass bottle, “Chrissake, you drink this all today?”

“I  _ told _ you I was drunk!”

He stared at the bottle with his brows furrowed, holding her down with ease, even while distracted, “Really?” He was disturbed and impressed, “You seemed sober as a judge. Well, up until all the fuckin’ slapping and spitting. How the fuck was I supposed to know?”

She rolled her eyes, and tried to pull the hand away from her neck, “If I promise not to spit on you again, will you get the fuck off of me? I feel like I’m gonna puke.”

His anger was completely defused and he hopped off, not wanting to get spewed on. Butcher held out a hand for her, and hoisted her up. He ruffled her hair, and her stomach turned, “You hold your liquor. Need to take you out and get you in a proper bar fight, so you don’t take out all your cuntiness on me.”

Fen swatted his hand away, and rubbed her neck, “Pretty sure I’d get my ass beat.”

“Oh absolutely, but I’d let you tag me in.”

Fen groaned, coming down from her adrenaline high and feeling the downside of binge drinking without eating much, “Gonna get some water and sleep this off.”

“Don’t choke to death on vomit in your sleep, love.”

Fen shuffled off to the dingy room and dropped face first onto the bed. She tossed and turned, feeling like the room was swirling around her if she laid still for too long. Her fingers brushed across her neck, and she wondered if her collarbone would be sore tomorrow from his palm pressing so hard against it. Upon reflection, that moment also reminded her of the night they met. 

Aggression from her was rare and exceptional, but he wrenched it out of her with savant-like skill. She smiled. Even when it came to blows with him, it always ended anticlimactically like this. He didn’t hate her if she got angry and stupid. Sure, he would have been a hypocrite if he held something like that against her, but in Fen’s experience, it was rare for someone like him to receive as well as he could give. Paradoxically, she felt  _ safe _ being angry around him. He wouldn’t keep yelling at her the whole night, give her the cold shoulder for weeks, stalk her, or kill himself. She shook the painful line of thinking away, and indulged in a more “fun” memory. The night she met Butcher. 

The evening he broke into her apartment, stood strong against a lamp shattered against his head, and  _ somehow _ (an arm-bar and Fen’s tendency towards submission) convinced her to hear him out. 

* * *

When Butcher suggested a late night diner trip to “get you out of this stuffy fuckin’ place,” Fen agreed, lacing up unloved shoes and ignoring the reality that she hadn’t seen the inside of a place other than her apartment in a few months. 

She  _ knew _ this was stupid. Had he suggested riding in his car rather than walking to your corner joint, Fen knew that even  _ then _ she would have agreed to go with him. She was relieved not having to demonstrate her apparent death-drive just yet. She trained her gaze forward, not even chancing a side glance, but she gathered as much information on him as she could with her weak peripheral vision and danger-heightened senses. 

This supposed fed looked suspiciously relaxed for someone who just got bashed with a lamp. He swaggered forward like there was nothing particularly bad in his life going on at the moment. Does the CIA even hire non-native citizens? Fen lost herself in thought, and caught back up when his profile gave way to his back. If he  _ was _ CIA, the duct tape patch on his coat and poorly tied boots felt like excellent pieces of world building to maintain his cover. She was forgetting herself, her fear, and becoming consumed with questions about an aggressive man aptly named Butcher. 

The door jingle stung her ears, as did the sound of clattering plates in the kitchen, low volume tunes on the speaker, and scritching and scraping of knives finally bottoming out on the leather-tough country fried steak. Butcher took a seat at the back-wall booth, and Fen found soothing the tickle of discomfort she inflicted upon him when she sat beside instead of across from him. She didn’t sidle up particularly close, but it was irregular nonetheless. 

“I prefer my back to the wall, too.”

He took a menu from the rack, and nodded while reading it over, “Smart gal. What’s good here?”

“Nothing, but I usually get the sausage and grits bowl. Butcher is a fun last name. I'm jealous. Where's it from?"

"Me dad." He answered with no hesitation. Of course, a man like him wouldn't fall for such simple questioning. If he was that foolish, he wouldn't have gotten into her apartment in the first place.

Fen nodded, not the slight bit dissuaded yet, "Lucky you. I like my name just fine and all--it's pretty unique. Last name, though, yikes. Not good at all for middle school."

"Fen Fink." Butcher tested it on his tongue, then nodded, "Mmm. Fen stink." That was at least one thing confirmed--he actually knew her whole name. The data gathering mission was proving to be a rousing success. 

"Yep. I bet you were quite the bully in primary school, huh?" The subtle questioning just rolled off her tongue naturally. A sly look and a smirk told her that she once again underestimated his perception. He knew it was called elementary school here in the states. Butcher didn't bother answering. 

Fen moved on, "I was actually a huge bully, myself." 

His body language, though still restrained, at the very least did not become more hostile, "Aye, believe that after you tried to end my life with a floor lamp."

"Hm, well, I was only ever mean to boys who were bigger than me. And only if they bullied other people. They'd gotten to the age where they felt bad hitting a girl." Fen watched her audience's reaction. Though he seemed very interested in the menu, his lip twitched slightly at the last point she made. He was picturing her as a scrappy, wee lass, trying desperately to shove a boy in a locker. She pressed on.

"I guess I took advantage of that, but didn't really have any other resources available to me. Know what I mean?"

Before he could answer, the waitress wandered over asking their orders. Butcher picked Fen's recommendation and Fen asked for a waffle. They both asked for coffee. The waitress floated off again, and Butcher finally gave his full attention, starting with a question of his own, "so you fancied yourself a vigilante, eh?"

His newfound animation put her off a bit, but she responded in kind, "I guess so! Whatever works… Within the bounds of the law, of course. Don't want to implicate myself in anything."

"Do you have a question you want to ask?" Fen really shouldn't have felt shocked or embarrassed, but she was a bit of both. 

She still lied through her teeth, though, "I… If I'm being honest, working with feds freaks me out. I doubt whatever legal immunity y'all have actually extends to me. I don't wanna fuck anything up."

Fen  _ was _ nervous about fucking up any plan, yes, and the idea of working with feds freaked her out. She just didn't think Butcher was one. Butcher softened, "Don't worry yourself about any of that."

“Why not?”

“You’ll be protected,”  _ within reason _ , “you won’t get in any legal trouble,”  _ he was fine taking the fall for anything, as long as he got what he wanted in the end _ , “and the CIA can generally secure full immunity for its assets.” He knew that to be true, first hand. Not a lie told, merely truth omitted.

Fen was sure he didn’t lie, but his answer still made her stomach churn. It’s like he was standing in front of a locked door, and any time she asked what was behind it, he would simply deny its existence and try to sell her on some souped-up, flashy Camaro. 

The protracted mental image made something click in her head. Butcher was a salesman. If there’s one thing salesmen do, it’s selling you shit you don’t need at a mark-up. She  _ already _ had a plan before he showed up. All he’s done so far is prove he’s willing to threaten the safety of a traumatized person, appeal to her desire for revenge, and evade  _ any _ question about the legitimacy of whatever the hell it was he was selling. Learned submission won out over the flash of anger she felt--she would extend one last olive branch. 

Butcher was getting sick of the evasiveness on both sides, but he thought Fen was liable to clam up if he revealed too much too soon. Still, he knew he was losing her. She looked like she was rolling over, but no way in hell someone planning to use herself as bait to catch a supe was as pliant as she currently appeared. Fen just used that weak look to get people to not suspect a thing. That fire inside of her is part of why he decided to engage, but he would  _ not _ allow it to be used against him. She needed to be  _ actually _ weak against him.

"So," he glanced around the diner, "You really got that agoraphobia shit, eh? You seem… mostly fine out here right now."

Fen was taken off guard and blushed, "Well, I'm not diagnosed but I…. I've only left my apartment like 3 times in the past year." She glanced up at him, then looked away, "It helps that it's night time and we're in the corner."

A heavy hand clapped her knee and she blushed, "Safe and sound next to 'ol Billy." 

He needed her to believe that the only place safe was right next to him. That plan, though, was doomed to fail, because she knew the promise of safety was always a trick. As much as she enjoyed the attention, it was the trigger that finally set off the alarm bells in her head.

The real, panicky fear she should have felt the entire night hit her with that simple gesture of kindness. Fen had blatantly peeved him with all the questioning, but now he was promising her safety at his side? His motivations were opaque, but what right did he have to use her? To try tricking her? She’s the one who had been victimized for months, including tonight, and then endlessly lied to, as though she would be an easy sell due to her trauma. 

They finished the meal, and began the walk back to the apartment in silence. Butcher almost felt bad for poking at a debilitating mental disorder and apparently sending Fen into a catatonic spiral, but he had done far worse things for far worse reasons. She needed to be a scared little pet with no choice but to cling to him, and in his mind, she was definitely sticking a lot closer to him on this leg of the round trip. He was right about the mind spiral, at least, but wrong about what was really racing through her head.

_ ‘This guy really thinks he can trick me? He really thinks I’m that stupid?’ _ Her fear flash-boiled into rage, and the empty street and casual, lazy swagger of her partner suddenly seemed an asset rather than a simple fact of a late weeknight. Fen sidled up to Butcher, even closer, a wind having caught her tattered sails, “Hey, I want to ask you something…” She muttered, conspiratorially. 

Off guard once more, he paused on the sidewalk, leaning in a bit to better hear her mousy voice. Fen wrung her hands in anticipation of a dangerous stunt, but to him it just seemed like general shyness. 

“Umm…” He leaned a hair closer to hear her surely quite silly question, causing him to look awkward and slant. His grin was open and friendly, having lost the tensity from earlier questioning. Fen ignored the tingle in her gut that look gave her and yanked him into the trash cans on her other side. She grabbed the gun hanging freely in his wide open coat pocket, and dashed down the street, knowing a close-up fight between the two would end as a loss for her, without a doubt.

“Oi, you fuckin’ cunt!” Butcher didn’t stay down long at all (he might not have been CIA, but he sure was athletic), but all Fen wanted was a little space, anyways. “Chrissake, fuckin’--”

Fen gripped the gun, keeping her index finger well away from the trigger, and spun on her heels. Butcher, who was about 10 feet away, shot his hands up immediately. Fen took another step back, deciding she was somehow not out of arm's reach, “Don’t step forward, I’m not an idiot”

“Never said you were.”

Fen’s heart pounded in her ears and her anger spiked again, “But you  _ clearly _ think I am.”

Butcher, cautiously took a step, “Look, what you’re doing right now is a federal crime with a minimum 20 year sentence, but I--”

Fen retreated in perfect lock-step, “Still, with this shit? You’re not fucking CIA.”

“ _ Shooting _ someone is still a federal--”

“You broke into my house. You’re impersonating a government agent. You expect me to think you’re  _ not _ doing some psycho shit for Vought?” Fen resisted the urge to cry or lunge forward in a rage.

“I  _ don’t _ work for Vought and I can’t make this any more fuckin’ clear.” He looked embarrassed, like being at all associated with Vought was worse than anything else she listed off. Interesting what sort of emotions are drawn out when being held at gunpoint.

Fen believed that, but she didn’t believe the story he arrogantly stuck to, “Convince me. I know you’re not with the government, so tell me a less moronic story than that and I won’t shoot.”

“Fine,” He rolled his eyes, stepping forward again in indignation, but froze when Fen’s arms tensed once more, “you can put the gun down, I’ll explain.”

“No, explain.”

“Fuckin' hell, first of all, I  _ did _ work for the CIA at one point, so I wasn't completely making that up. My wife’s been missing for 10 years. Homelander raped her. She’s dead or worse, so I’m trying to kill the cunt and every single fuckin’ person who’s ever so much as pissed in his direction.” Vigor and spunk drained from his face with each word, and by the end, he just looked tired.

Fen didn’t have the privilege of feeling guilt yet, though she knew that would come to her later with full force. Before that, she needed more clarity, “Okay, why did you break into my apartment? You’re fucking with my life for what reason, huh? What’s the reason?”

“Your life was already fucked with, Fen. There’s so many people in this city who’ve been tortured by these cunts, but they all just lie on their fuckin’ backs and take it.  _ You _ had their head in your sights before I even showed up. If either of us are going to gank these evil cunts, we’ll need each other's back.” Butcher’s smile was suddenly so charming despite just talking about his wife being raped.

“Stop trying to flatter me, and be more specific. What exactly do you fucking want from me?” Fen’s arms were getting tired, but she re-adjusted her grip.

Fen watched his mouth open and close silently, and then his brow furrow. As sure as the emotions that were drained from her body, she knew he would not be able to weasel past the blatant question, “What I just told you was  _ not _ a lie, but I also happen to know you’re a talented online poker player. My idea was to get some capital support on top of some blackmail for Translucent. In exchange, I’d keep you protected from the supes and get you the invisible freak’s head on a platter one day.”

“That's it?”

“On my dad’s soul.”

“You don’t look like someone with a good father.”

Butcher laughed, “Right, but nonetheless, that’s it. I fuckin’ swear.”

Fen dropped her now exhausted arms, and stepped towards Butcher, offering back the weapon. In a second, her face was being ground into the sidewalk, and arms twisted like a pretzel. She lost her breath entirely, but made not a sound while Butcher seethed in her ear like a wild beast, “You don’t have the fuckin’ guts to shoot someone, but I  _ do _ . So don’t fuckin’ point a gun at me again unless you plan to kill me.”

* * *

Fen knew it was probably perverse, but she played that night over and over again in her head before falling into an uneasy slumber. 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so it's a slow burn, but it's also a tumultuous journey with shifting boundaries. Meaning, there will probably be more sorta explicit interactions like this in early chapters. Worry not, though, these emotionally stunted babies have a lot to work through.
> 
> This will be /mostly/ canon, with some liberties taken around timeline, so we can get some quality time with the characters before shit hits the fan. Will add more tags/pairings as they appear in the chapters.
> 
> Also, this is my first published fic please no bully I am,,,, fragile,,,,


End file.
